My name is Peter Masters. I'm a Private Investigator. While I'm no one's conception of the typical big city gumshoe, my rates are reasonable and my expenses are few. I've never been a slave to the ostentatious trappings by which some define success. I believe an honest work ethic along with irrefutable results say more about the character of a man than the cost of his wing tips. On the other hand, I have been known to celebrate the end of a laborious case by blowing a fortune on an over-priced blazer or two. After all, I'm only human. My limited sense of financial prudence notwithstanding, I had never allowed the social status of the people involved in an investigation to derail sound judgment. The Larson homicide would be no different. I'd hoped to cruise past the beautiful brick homes of Gossamer Seasons virtually unnoticed, but the early morning joggers and par-time gardeners made it evident that the eyes of the cul-de-sac were upon me. I guess a forty-year-old private "eye," driving a recently restored 1975 Plymouth Fury can only expect so much in the way of anonymity. The shadow of grief was still prevalent when Mrs. Lipton opened the door and let me in. With each unnerving sigh, she seemed to drift into a quiet rest where the biting chill of her present reality gave way to a pacifying warmth that somehow provided the strength she needed to carry on. Her home was immaculate. Pictures of laughing children and elated loved ones paid tribute to uncomplicated times, which had long since passed. I wanted to help her find relief from the cumbersome onus of sorrow that weighed so heavily upon her heart. I'd be taking her case, but I wasn't certain that either of us was prepared for what I might find. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Masters," Mrs. Lipton said, pouring me a cup of coffee. "This is the first time I've ever hired a Private Investigator." "You're quite welcome, Mrs. Lipton," I replied. "I noticed the crime scene tape across Mrs. Larson's door. It must be difficult for you to see it every day." "Yes, it's very painful to know that my best friend was killed, and so close to me." "I'd like to have a look inside the house. I'll have to speak with Captain Paremore." "It may not look like I have much, but I can pay your fee. I just want someone to tell me the truth." "There's a lot of politics involved in this case, Mrs. Lipton. Getting to the truth won't be easy." "I understand all that, but the Police are dragging their feet. They haven't told us anything new in a month. The tabloids are having a field day. Mary wasn't some icon that only existed in the public's imagination. She was a real person; and I loved her with all my heart." "Did she have many enemies in her professional life?" "I didn't know much about her business." "What about her family?" "Now, that's another story." "What do you mean?" "Mary didn't get along with her granddaughters. She thought they were ungrateful brats who didn't appreciate all she'd done for them. She hated her nephew's wife, Jessica. The girl never came around to visit. In fact, she's the only member of the family I haven't seen. Mary said she was a gold digger. I don't have to tell you about the bad blood between her and Carter. That was in the papers." "I remember. Dr. Lambert had a drinking problem. He almost killed one of his patients. Mrs. Larson was on the hospital board. She fought hard to have him removed." "About a week before Mary died, she told me she was changing her will. She'd arranged for her personal assistant, Carla Janic to take over the Panhandle Graces. They wanted to turn the place into some kind of fancy nightspot. She met with the family that Thursday night to tell them what she was planning." "Were you at the meeting?" "No, but Mary told me her lawyer, Lonigan Turner was going to be there. He was bringing over some papers for her to sign." "I'll need to have a talk with Mr. Turner." "Do you really think you can find Mary's killer?" "I'll give it my best shot," I resolved, preparing to leave. "But I won't make any promises." "I understand. Thank you, Mr. Masters." There was no reason to question Mrs. Larson's sincerity, but I suspected her perspective had been colored by feelings of loyalty and devotion to the decedent. I had to talk to someone who wouldn't be inhibited by the refining laws of acceptable taste. Lanigan Turner was the obvious choice. Though I understood the practical value of expensive furnishings and decorative art, I thought the porcelain fountain near the end of the hallway set a standard for pretentiousness that could rival the greediest drug lord I'd ever confronted. I was preparing to read a riveting and timely article on the never-ending influence of break dancing when my concentration was thwarted by what sounded like the tempered reverberations of two angry voices coming from the direction of Turner's office. So I stood up and cautiously approached. When I was a teen-ager, my friends and I would often fantasize about trading places with smooth talking rich guys who seemed to control the course of their own destinies. Yet when I pushed open the partially secured door and found a terrified Lanigan Turner being raked over the coals by Jessica Lambert, I began to view the aspirations of my youth through a more discriminating pair of eyes. Years of sorrow and rejection had left an unmistakable brand on the vengeful countenance of Dr. Lambert's impertinent young bride. Her disconcerting posture and penetrating stare relayed the bitterness of a torrid past. She'd never been able to escape. The permanent scars above her eyes were an ever-present reminder that the world can be a dangerous place for fallen angels who pine for solace in the heart of a beast. Finding a reason to dislike this woman wasn't the hardest task I'd ever undertaken. Still, I had to admire her for the one redeeming quality that continued to manifest itself. Jessica loved her husband; and I had no doubt that she'd do anything in her power to protect him. "May I help you?" Turner asked, rising from his desk as he dried his brow with a handkerchief. "My name is Masters," I replied, displaying my credentials. "I've been hired to investigate the death of Mary Larson." "I'm Lanigan Turner. This is Carter Lambert's wife, Jessica." "Please allow me to extend my condolence, Mrs. Lambert." Standing akimbo with a contemptuous jiggle, Jessica looked in my direction and proceeded to make her position known in no uncertain terms. "Are you kidding me? Do you honestly think I would shed a tear for that snobbish old witch?" "This isn't the time, Jessica," Turner pleaded. "Shut up, Lanigan!" She snapped. "I grew up in foster care, Mr. Masters. I've lived in neighborhoods where the Mary Larsons of this world looked at me like I made them sick. When I was sixteen I ran away. I discovered a whole new world of people who made me feel like they cared about me. One guy almost loved me to death with a switchblade knife. I've seen it all, P.I." "Why are you telling him all this?" Turner asked. "Because I want him to understand that he's not dealing with the kind of woman who just rolls over and plays dead while people try to railroad her man!" She told him. "Is someone trying to frame your husband?" I asked. "Isn't it obvious?" She asked. "The press keeps making noise about Carter's drinking problem. Someone is always bringing up mistakes he made ten years ago. Creepy little photographers keep following us around. I know the cops are watching the house." "I have nothing to gain from railroading Dr. Lambert," I assured her. "I'm only interested in the truth." "You'll forgive me for questioning your sincerity," she said, with a nervous twitch as she ran her fingers through her silky raven mane. "I haven't found the milk of human kindness to be so fortifying in my time." "You love your husband very much," I observed. "Oh, you have no idea," she said. "When I was at the end of my rope, Carter picked me up and helped me turn my life around. I'll make anyone who tries to hurt my husband pay dearly." "Is that a threat?" I asked. "I don't make threats," she insisted, as she collected her coat and purse. "Just think of it as a promise from someone who's not afraid to back it up." After a brief moment of awkward silence, Turner invited me to sit down. He seemed quite relieved to see Jessica leave. "You'll have to excuse Jessica," he said. "She tends to blow matters out of proportion." "I don't suppose you'd like to tell me what the two of you were discussing when I came in." "What can I do for you, Mr. Masters?" He asked, with a hint of agitation in his voice. "The only information I have about Mary Larson came from the media. She's depicted as a loving grandmother with no known enemies. You knew her personally. Tell me who could have been angry enough to kill her." "I'm still the attorney for the family." "I'm not asking you to betray privilege. I just need some insight into Mrs. Larson's world." "How's this for insight? Mary was a spiteful, vindictive old windbag who'd rip your heart out with her bare hands." "How common is that point of view?" "How deep is the ocean? She's hurt a lot of people." "You brought some papers to the Panhandle Graces the night of your client's death." "That's right." "What happened at that gathering?" "After Mary told them about the changes she was making in the will, she and Brenda had words. Brenda didn't like the way she was shutting Deborah out." "Deborah and Brenda are her granddaughters." "Correct." "It sounds like Brenda was pretty angry." "Oh, there's no doubt, but she had nothing to do with the old lady's death." "How can you be so sure?" "Because we left together and spent most of the night in this office, going over plans to expand her business." "I was hoping you'd be able to provide some kind of lead." "I can do better than that," he said, unlocking his desk drawer and pulling out a file. "As executor of Mary's estate I stand to inherit three million dollars; provided the case gets solved. So you can be sure I've been keeping a close eye on this investigation. You can keep this file. I've got copies." "You certainly don't mind being blunt." "There's no need to lie. I didn't like Mary, but I was crazy about her money." I opened the file and examined the documents. There were a few details the police were keeping to themselves. "You've done some brilliant detective work." "I presume you're looking at the DNA test results that showed the killer was not a relative of the victim. You may also have noticed the killed had AIDS." "The M.E. was Silas Parnell. I'll have to talk to him." "I wouldn't make any immediate plans." "Why?" "Unfortunately, Dr. Parnell's last meeting with an overly zealous divorce attorney earned him a well needed vacation. You won't find him at his office. I think he's out of the country." "According to this, the killer entered the house through the study window, but it doesn't say anything about footprints." "It rained like crazy that night. If there were any footprints, they were washed away by morning." "Thank you, Mr. Turner," I said as I stood up. "You've been very helpful." My meeting with Turner had turned out to be more productive than I'd hoped. The information he'd provided would save a considerable amount of time and legwork. Still, I wasn't thoroughly convinced of his sincerity. He didn't want to tell me why he and Jessica were arguing, but I had a feeling it involved Mary Larson. After taking some time to review Turner's file along with a few old newspaper articles that detailed the Larson family' S activities over the past few years, I headed for the Police station to see my friend, Captain Leo Paremore. I had a lot of respect for Leo. He wasn't the kind of cop who would allow the politics of a high-profile case to compromise his ethics. He would've committed the same amount of time and energy to solving the murder of a poor person. That's what made him the right detective for the job. "Lieutenant Mathers was standing over the Captain's shoulder, reading over a report when I knocked on his door. "There seemed to be a tinge of distrust in Mahalia's eyes when she looked at me, but I didn't take it personally. Considering the kind of agony she was capable of inflicting upon people she really disliked, it felt safe to presume I was on fairly stable ground. "Pete!" The Captain exclaimed when he looked up and saw me. "It's been awhile. Come in and sit down." "How's it going, Mahalia?" I spoke to the Lieutenant. "Mathers," she responded in a cold, dragging tone. "Captain, I'll be in my office." "Thank you, Lieutenant," Leo replied, as Mathers left. "I suppose you know why I'm here," I said. "Don't tell me." "That's right. I've been hired to investigate the death of Mary Larson." "You don't know what you're getting yourself into, Pete. Did you see that crowd of protesters outside? They want my head on a platter." "That's why it would be beneficial for us to help each other." "My hands are tied, man. There's information about this case I can't let anyone know." "Are you referring to the DNA results or the killer's immune deficiency problems?" Leo leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling as he brushed his hand over his mouth. "How did you find out?" "I'm a detective, Leo. It's my job." "If you leak that information, you could blow the case." p> "I'm not going to leak anything, but you'd better believe I'm not the only one who knows." "What if your source goes to the press?" "My source is only interested in solving the murder." "This case is slipping through our fingers. We do need all the help we can get." "Then you'll let me help?" "I want you to share everything you find. Report to no one but me." "Agreed. By the way, I'd like to have a look at the crime scene." "Let me get back to you. Hoffman has been supervising a few rookie detectives and letting them work different aspects of the case." "That's very generous of the Inspector." "Every good deed will be brought up again in some future bid for public office. Either way, I don't want you bumping into him while you're working with me." "Anything else?" "If you can't get in touch with me, call Mathers. Oh, and Pete, be careful." > "Thanks, Leo." I knew Leo was right. Tracking down Mary Larson's killer could've opened the door to more danger than I'd ever imagined. I probably should've walked away, but I felt Mrs. Lipton deserved to know the truth. Solving a crime can sometimes feel like participating in a scavenger hunt. I'd already uncovered the scorn and resentment hidden in the subconscious mind of Lanigan Turner. It had taken very little digging to excavate the gems of adoration that adorned the love between Alice and Mary. The next path of exploration would take me to the people who knew the victim better than anyone. "X" marked the spot at the Panhandle Graces Restaurant. Carla Janic had just returned from the store with cleaning supplies and was walking toward the front entrance when I arrived. "Excuse me," I said, displaying my identification. "My name is Masters. I'm looking into the death of Mary Larson." A look of sorrow came over her face as she lowered her head. "I'm Carla Janic," she said. "Mary was like a grandmother to me." "I can see this is difficult, so I'll be brief. Where were you the night of Mrs. Larson's death?" "I was at the college library until it closed at two a.m." "Did any of her family members seem to have a problem with you?" "No more than you'd expect." "What do you mean?" "Deborah could get a little snippy, but that's just her way. Brenda thought her grandmother was being kind to me to hurt Deborah." "You'll have to admit the untimely passing of Mrs. Larson allows you to reap your inheritance a lot sooner than expected. That gives you a very strong motive." "That would be true if Mary hadn't added a codicil to her will. You see, Mr. Masters, in the event of Mary's life being cut short by means of foul play, no one gets a dime until the crime is solved. Murdering Mary would not have been in my best interest." "What did Dr. Lambert and his mother think of you?" "The two of them have always treated me like family," she said with a partial smile as she struggled to hold on to her bags. "They're inside." "Here, let me help you with those," I offered, just before we entered the restaurant. The continuous clanging of pots and pans didn't seem to hamper the spiritless kitchen staff as they faithfully went about their dismal task. Victoria Lambert sat quietly in a rear booth, pondering over her photo albums while her son lingered in misery at the bar, with his hands wrapped around a drink. "It sounds like you're getting ready for a big crowd," I said, setting the bags down. "Not at all. It's just a little Spring-cleaning. The place will have to be shut down until we hear from the lawyer. I'll be in the back if you need me." "Thank you, Miss Janic." I walked slowly over to Dr. Lambert and sat down beside him. "Dr. Lambert, I'm Pete Masters," I said. "I'm investigating your aunt's murder." "I've already spoken to the police," he said, staring straight ahead into his glass, "I really don't know what more I can say." "Sometimes a victim may have said something to his or her family that could provide some insight." "Sorry, Masters. We weren't that kind of family." "I'm continually learning that fact." "I'm sure you've heard about my drinking problem." "It was in the newspapers." "I suspect it's also the reason you keep staring at my glass." "I'm sorry. I didn't realize." "Don't give it a thought. I haven't touched the hard stuff in years. This is iced tea." "Your aunt was instrumental in getting your medical license suspended. What were your feelings toward her?" "You are good. I'll admit I was angry at first, but since then, I've been able to take a long, sober look at myself. I came very close to killing a young father with four children. If Mary hadn't lobbied for my dismissal, I might have kept on operating. Eventually, someone's life would've been lost. So, I'm thankful for what happened. Today, have my medical license back. I'm the host of a weekly radio show. Most importantly, I have a beautiful wife who loves and supports me. I don't have time to get bogged down in a mire of resentment." "I met your wife a couple of days ago." "She told me. Please allow me to apologize for her brash approach. She's very afraid for me these days." "I can appreciate that. I didn't get to ask her where she was at the time of the murder." "She was at a pharmacy convention in Jacksonville. I stayed at to my mother's house. You can ask her." "Is this a good time?" "I doubt if there will ever be a good time." I was about to walk over to Mrs. Lambert's table when a statuesque beauty in a leather miniskirt, purple go-go boots and a mauve turtleneck came sashaying from the powder room. It was Mary's granddaughter, Deborah. "What in the world are you wearing?" Carter asked in amazement. "I'm making a statement, baby!" She boldly declared. "It's not a statement I'd make in mixed company," the Doctor advised. "Who's the beefcake?" She asked, looking at me like a hungry tiger. "This is Mr. Masters," Carter told her. "He's investigating Mary's death." "A stud like you should find something better to do with his time," she commented. "You told the Police that you were at a party the night your grandmother was killed. "That's right, sweet cheeks," she confirmed. "A friend of mine had come home for Spring break. We partied till the early morning hours, if you get my drift." "Deborah has a wide spectrum of friends," Carter explained. "You'd better believe it, sawbones," she insisted. "You don't' seem very upset over your grandmother's death," I observed. "Look, I wouldn't wish death on anybody, but the two of us just didn't get along," Deborah said as she placed the strap of her purse over her shoulder. "I'm going to say goodnight to Aunt Vick, Doc. Oh, and Mr. Masters, if you're ever in the mood to let your hair down, give me a call." Some guys would've probably been flattered by Deborah's advances, but she was too obvious and I'd been around a little too long. "Don't judge her too harshly, Mr. Masters," Carter implored, stroking his graying goatee. "She wasn't always this way. In fact, she was a miracle baby." "How so?" "When Deborah's mother, Sarah, was pregnant, Mary drove her crazy. Deborah's father, James, finally packed up and moved his wife to California. The child was four years old when her parents brought her back. James told me about all the complications his wife suffered during the pregnancy. If only we could realize how blessed we are to have each other." "Thank you, Doctor." After Deborah had left, I approached Victoria. "Good evening, Mrs. Lambert," I said. "I'm Pete Masters." "You're the detective," she responded. "That's right. How did you know?" "Alice told me about you." "Are you and Mrs. Lipton close?" "I met Alice four years ago, when Mary sold her mansion and bought the house at Gossamer Seasons. The mansion is now a bettered women's shelter." "I wondered why a woman of her wealth was living in a middle-class neighborhood." "She said the house seemed empty without her husband. I know the feeling." I looked down at the photo album and noticed the pictures of legendary stars. "Were you an actress," I asked. "Oh, no," she sighed. "I was a Hollywood makeup artist in the forties. I went out there to break into the movies, but I didn't have my father's talent. He was a song and dance man on Vaudeville." "Who is this?" I asked, referring to the photo of a young woman with a dark patch across the left side of her face. "That's Carla." "This is the young woman who let me in?" "Oh, yes. She was born with that birthmark on her face. I taught her how to apply a little makeup in the right places. It has made a world of difference. She was so shy and withdrawn when she came to us. Now, she's attending classes at the local college. I'm proud of her." "How did you and your sister get along?" "Over the years, I suppose, we've had our share of ups and downs. We were always fighting about the way she treated her granddaughters. So much wasted time and energy." "I'm sorry." "Oh, it's alright, Mr. Masters. Those are just the kinds of things that happen when we forget to handle the hearts of our loved ones with care." "Can you think of anyone who might want to harm your sister?" "No one particularly stands out. Mary made some enemies in her lifetime." "That's Dr. Lambert's wife," I observed, pointing to Jessica's picture. "I'm surprised Mary had this picture. Jessica has never stepped foot in her house." "Jessica made her feelings known when we met. I gathered the sentiments were mutual." "That's an understatement. Mary thought Jessica was only after money, but I believe she truly loves Carter. He put her through college and bought her a pharmacy. She's in that store every morning before the sun comes up. After six years of marriage, she's still around. That's got to count for something." p> "Mrs. Lambert, a few hours before her death, your sister met with the family at this restaurant. Her granddaughter, Brenda, told the Police that they exchanged some angry words." "That's true, but Brenda was just letting off steam. She could never hurt anyone. "Who was the last one to leave?" "I was," she answered, as tears rolled down her cheeks. "I said I was ashamed of her." "I held Mrs. Lambert's hand and motioned to her son. As I watched Dr. Lambert comfort his mother, I thought of the many battles that must have been won and lost in this tumultuous family's never-ending conflict. Finding Mary's killer would bring some closure to their shattered lives, but it would take a lifetime to heal their wounded hearts. I spent the next two weeks running down leads I'd developed from Lanigan Turner's file. I talked to business acquaintances and disgruntled former employees who might have had a score to settle with Mary Larson. A few of my more intrepid sources tried to find out if a hit had been put out on her, but that trail ran cold. Efforts to discover whether or not anyone had been trying to move some old jewelry also hit a brick wall. If finally decided to take a rest from my fruitless exploits and sleep in on a dreary Saturday morning. An unexpected call from Captain Paremore threw a wrench into that plan. "Hello," I answered the phone with a groggy hiss. "Pete, it's Leo," the Captain said. "What's up, Leo?" "For the past six months Mathers has been investigating Twelve-Toes McDonald's racketeering." "There had better be more." "There is. She obtained a warrant to examine the books for is big hotel in Tallahassee. One of the credit card receipts belonged to Brenda Larson." "So?" "The purchase was made on the night of Mary Larson's murder. I'm on my way to the young lady's place now. I thought you'd like to join me." "I'll meet you there." Brenda lived in an upscale apartment building on Hollinger Street. Leo was sitting on the hood of his car when I pulled up beside him. The wind was picking up and there was the familiar aroma of an impending rain in the air. "How's it going, Leo?" I asked. "Are you sure it's Spring?" He wondered out loud. "That's life in the Panhandle, man." "The kid lives on the second floor," the Captain informed me, as we entered the b building and proceeded to take the stairs up to Brenda's room. "According to her statement, she and Lanigan Turner were working in his office the night of the murder." "Turner told me the same thing. By the way, how is the investigation going on your end?" p> "We've managed to narrow down a list of ex-cons who might have had motive and opportunity, but so far, alibis have been checking out. In other words, we've got nothing." When we knocked on Brenda's door, a tall man wearing a bathrobe let us in. He was drying his hair with a towel, so his vision was obstructed. "I knew the rain would catch you before you finished your run," he said, believing he was talking to someone else. "Excuse me, sir," Leo entreated. "I'm Captain Paremore. We're looking for Brenda Larson." The man's body stiffened as he slowly pulled the towel from his head. It was Lanigan Turner. Before he could explain himself, Brenda suddenly appeared in the doorway, dressed in a yellow jogging outfit with a garnet sweatband around her head. "What's going on?" She asked. "That's what I'd like to know," Leo responded. After we'd given Turner a few minutes to get dressed, the four of us sat down for a little talk. Brenda offered us some of the blood red brew she'd concocted in her blender. We nauseously declined. "I suppose you'd like to know what I'm doing here," Turner concluded. "I'd be more interested in knowing why you lied about your whereabouts the night Mrs. Larson was killed." "How did you find out?" Brenda asked. "We found a credit care receipt from the hotel where you stayed in Tallahassee," the Captain replied. "There's no need to hid it any longer," Turner surrendered. "It's time to tell the truth." "Lanigan, no…" Brenda pleaded. "It's alright, Brenda," he assured her. "No one can hurt us now. Brenda and I were at that hotel because we were on our honeymoon. We were married earlier that day, but we couldn't let anyone know." "Why?" I asked. "You know my reputation, masters," he reminded me. The Senior Partners in my firm were all friends of Kenneth Larson. Mary would've ruined me." "Now she can't do anything," the Captain concluded. "Neither of us killed my grandmother, Captain," Brenda insisted. "That receipt is proof that we were out of town when it happened. We couldn't have wished for a more airtight alibi." "I do hope the two of you will be available if I have more questions," Leo told them, as we prepared to leave. "We're not going anywhere," Turner responded. "There is one more thing, Captain. I spoke to your Chief about allowing the family access to Mary's house. He said he'd speak with you." "Well, I haven't seen the Chief since Thursday, but I'll make it easy for you," Leo agreed. "The family can have the house first thing Monday morning. Good-bye, Mr. Turner, Mrs. Turner." Part 4, and the last segment, Forgotten Devotion will appear in the February issue. ~1~ ~2~ ~3~ ~4~

 

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